Picking Up the Pieces
by ArtemisXYZ
Summary: A few months after the team lost one of their own, they have to face with the loss of a different kind. A loss that cuts deeper than anything.
1. Prologue

NCIS Special Agent Anthony "Tony" DiNozzo felt sick. His heart beat sluggishly, there was a roaring in his ears, and black spots appeared in his line of vision. Not good signs. He'd either toss his cookies or faint in the middle of the bullpen. In the middle of a crowded office.

For the first time in his life he didn't care what that might do to his reputation. He didn't care about anything. He simply didn't care anymore. Because there was nothing worth caring about anymore. He felt dead. He was dead inside.

He knew that feeling. He'd experienced it once before. Four years ago. When he thought...

When he thought Ziva was dead. He'd been dead inside then as well.

But he's been resurrected when he'd seen her alive and well in front of him in that dingy cell in Somalia.

There was no chance of resurrection this time. Never again.

Because this time Ziva David was really dead.

"Gibbs," he heard Abby whisper shakily. "Are you sure?"

Their boss just nodded, an arm slung across Abby's shoulders.

"Are you really, really sure?"

"The retrieved DNA is a match, dear Abby," Ducky murmured dejectedly.

"That can be faked." Abby replied forcefully. "I mean, we haven't seen the body." She shuddered. They've seen the photographs. The photographs of the dead body that looked so much like Ziva. Too much like Ziva. "Not really."

"The Mossad's been thorough," Director Vance said from the stair-landing over them. "They needed to be. So soon after Eli's death, they needed to be. They needed to make sure."

"No." Abby shook her head, looking beseechingly toward McGee. "No."

There was no reply. He stared into space.

She looked at Palmer. He had tears in his eyes. She looked at Ducky, willing for him to smile reassuringly at her. Nothing. She glanced up at Gibbs. His face, as always, revealed nothing, but there was an extra layer of sadness in his eyes.

"Tony," she moaned. She knew he was her only ally in this. She knew he refused to believe it. She looked at him and her heart skipped a beat. His eyes were dead and she finally realized it. She finally accepted it. If Tony believed Ziva was dead, then it was true. And she couldn't bear it.

She burst into tears, hiding her face against Gibbs' chest. Ziva was dead.

Gibbs embraced her, his eyes never leaving the senior member of his team.

Tony didn't meet that blue gaze. He just calmly stood and, leaving his backpack by the desk, walked to the elevator.

Above Abby's head, Gibbs looked at Vance.

.

.

The drive to his building a blur, Tony closed the apartment door behind him, and leaned back against it. His keys clattered to the floor and he followed them, slowly sliding against the door.

He leaned his arms on his bent knees, dropped his head forward, and broke down.


	2. Chapter 1

The bar wasn't so much a bar than a dive. Dark, with stale air that was a mixture of cheap booze, cheap perfume and cheaper women. The jukebox in the corner that'd seen better days attempted at playing a classic rock oldie and failed miserably. The bar with its mismatched stools had also seen much better days, but he didn't care what the dive looked like. He didn't care what it smelled like and what it sounded like. His glacial eyes barely brushed over the stools, the jukebox, the pool-table or the women. He paid closer attention to the male patrons, until his gaze brushed over the slumped figure on the other side of the bar.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs sighed, a mix of emotions coursing through him. He was relieved he's finally found his query, pissed off in what state he's found his query in, and feeling a pang of guilt for the reason his query was currently slumped on a not-so-stable-looking barstool, probably too drunk to remember his own name.

One glance was enough to prevent the woman who's sidled toward him from speaking and discourage her companions from even approaching him. He squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and strode through the gloom toward the slumped figure.

When he was close enough to see better, almost close enough to touch, the sight before him hit him. And hit him hard. He thought he was prepared for what he might find, he's been preparing for this confrontation for almost three months, but all those preparations, all the pep talks he's been giving himself, had obviously been useless.

The sight of DiNozzo looking like a bum, compared to the polished, debonair man he was used to, was enough to make him nauseous. Tony's hair was greasy and dull, long enough to almost reach his shoulders, the lower part of his face was hidden by a bushy, unkempt beard, his clothes were dirty and crumpled, hanging loosely on his much thinner frame, and it was obvious by the smell emanating from him, he hasn't bothered with a shower in quite a few days.

There was a half-empty bottle of bourbon in front of him, and no glass. The fingers clutching the neck of the bottle like a safe line were trembling slightly, the fingernails long, and encrusted with brown.

"Jesus," Gibbs muttered as he stopped by the younger—though at the moment DiNozzo looked years older—man's side. "I'm glad you're still sharp enough to disappear," he said, "it took quite an effort to find you."

When there was no reply, he put a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah," came a reply in a gravelly voice that indicated the man hasn't spoken much since disappearing from D.C. three months ago. "I heard you." Tony took a deep swallow from the bottle. "Well, you found me. Good for you. Now you can go right back and leave me the fuck alone."

Gibbs sighed again. "You know I can't do that."

Another deep swallow. "I know no such thing."

"Well, I'm telling you it isn't happening. I'm taking you home."

Tony finally looked at his former boss, giving Gibbs the full picture of just how far the man he's considered like a son for more years than he could count, has fallen. "You're not taking me anywhere."

"Everybody's worried about you, Tony," Gibbs said in a calm tone.

"I don't care."

"I know." A sigh. "I know you don't care." Before he would've never talked to Tony like this, but he felt the moment, the occasion deserved some empathy. "You don't care about anything. I know the feeling, Tony, you know I do. But wallowing, drinking yourself to death, won't help."

A cynical glimmer appeared in Tony's eyes. "Sure it will." He took another long drink. "It numbs. And if it numbs, it's helping."

"So you're planning on staying drunk for the rest of your life?" Gibbs was done playing nice. "Because that's how long it will take."

Tony just shrugged and lifted the bottle again.

Gibbs struck and the bottle shattered against the wall. "You're done," he snapped.

The barstool clattered to the door when Tony stood on wobbly legs and glared. "I'll say when I'm done! And I'm not done, yet, _boss_." The last word was laced with sarcasm and hurt. "You have no idea—"

"I do, Tony," Gibbs interrupted.

"No!" Tony snapped. "No, you don't! You have no idea, how much it hurts! Every fucking second of every fucking day. It hurts so much I can barely breathe! I miss her so much," he finished in a bare whisper.

"Tony."

"No! I should've been there. I could've been there if only..." His eyes filled with hatred. "This would never have happened if it wasn't for you and your fucking rules!"

They've attracted quite an audience, but it took only one hard stare to make everyone think twice before attempting an approach.

Gibbs saw Tony's hands clench into fists. "You want to take a swing at me?" He took a step forward. "Go ahead. But you only get one shot," he warned. Then it was his turn. He was taking Tony home tonight and he didn't particularly care if the boy walked out of here on his own steam.

He knew what Tony's next move would be before the kid even gathered all the anger, hatred, resentment that was both directed outward, but mostly inward, to strike. He ducked, and when Tony wobbled forward, thrown by his own momentum, Gibbs punched him in the jaw.

It was more a love-tap than a real punch, but it had the desired effect. Tony's lights were out.


	3. Chapter 2

Tony DiNozzo emerged from his bathroom hung-over, his hair still damp from the recent—hot this time—shower, yet feeling better than he had in months. His stomach was performing cartwheels, his head hurt, and his knees couldn't stop shaking, but he felt better.

Not good. He'd never feel good again. But definitely better. And he had the man who currently sat behind his kitchen island, seeping coffee from a mug, and reading a newspaper to thank for that.

But first, he had to apologize to him.

Gibbs lifted his head, his eyes running over DiNozzo. "Feeling better?" he asked.

Tony opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Not surprising. He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Thanks, boss."

A corner of Gibbs' mouth turned up, and he returned to reading the paper.

Tony winced again at the memory of what had happened the previous night. He'd come to as Gibbs was throwing him into the backseat of his car, but promptly fell back to sleep. He'd roused again somewhere in Virginia before oblivion took him again. The last time he'd come out of the drunken stupor had been when Gibbs had muscled him up the stairs, into his apartment, and directly under an ice-cold shower. Clothes and all.

"I'm sorry, boss," he whispered.

"Don't mention it."

Tony wouldn't be deterred. "I'm really sorry, boss. For what I put everybody through in the past months—"

"You should be telling that to the others as well."

Tony swallowed. "I will. After I apologize to you."

Gibbs pinned him with a glare. "You don't have to, DiNozzo."

"Yeah, I do. I do. For the way I behaved last night. For punching you—"

"You missed."

"For what I said." Tony winced again. He'd lashed out last night. "I was out of line. You're not to blame—"

"You're not either." When Tony shook his head, Gibbs continued, "You're not to blame, Tony. I know it, everyone knows it. You know it, too. Deep down, you know it's true. It'll sink in eventually."

"Has it sunk with you?"

Gibbs smiled wryly. "Not yet." Before Tony could speak again, he nodded toward the carafe of coffee on the counter. "Get some."

When Gibbs offered coffee, it meant they were good. Still, Tony suppressed a shudder. When Gibbs made coffee, on the other hand, meant it was dark, thick, and bitter and to drink it one had to have an ironclad stomach. Since he hasn't yet mastered the skill of drinking Gibbs-made coffee without any trimmings, he poured himself only half a cup and filled the other half with sugar and cream to take the sting out. He didn't miss Gibbs' glare at the desecration, but as he grinned at his former boss, he was rewarded with a chuckle and shrug.

Yeah, they were good.

"So, does that mean I get my badge back?"

Where did that one come from? He'd quit a couple of days after the news of...He shook his head. He hadn't been planning on going back to D.C., of going back to work. Did he still want to work for NCIS? In the same office? Looking across the bullpen at some stranger occupying that desk?

Jesus.

"I never received your resignation, DiNozzo."

Tony looked at Gibbs. He'd left the envelope with the badge on his desk.

"Your badge is in your gun-drawer," Gibbs said. "And I burned the paper it was wrapped in."

Tony swallowed, blinking back tears. Before, he'd laugh them off, embarrassed at his boss seeing him emotional, but this time it was different. Gibbs understood. He'd been there.

Gibbs nodded. "Even with the three months you'd been away, you still have some personal time left. You can come back when you're ready." He stood, rinsed his cup, and put a hand on Tony's shoulder. "We'll take it one day at a time."

"Thanks, boss."

Gibbs was in his face in a heartbeat. "But don't you ever do something as stupid as disappearing again, DiNozzo." He slapped him on the back of the head, and left him standing in his kitchen smiling through tears.

.

.

"Tony!" Abby squeaked when he walked into her lab the next week. "Tony!" She threw her arms around him, squeezing with all of her might. And promptly burst into tears.

"Abby," he whispered, hugging her back. "Don't. Please."

She quickly released him, sniffed, wiped her eyes, and looked at him. Really looked at him. And her heart broke. She cupped his cheeks with her hands, and fought back tears. He looked terrible. Pale and gaunt, his skin sallow looking, with dark circles under eyes that have lost their spark.

"Oh, Tony," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

He attempted a smile. "It's all right, Abby."

If she hadn't known before he'd loved Ziva, she had her proof now. No man looked like that when a co-worker died. Not even if that co-worker was a best friend. He looked like a man whose world has come tumbling down around him, like a man whose heart was utterly and irrevocably broken. Gone was the Tony DiNozzo they all loved—the funny, debonair guy that took everything in life as a joke. Instead of him they got Anthony DiNozzo, a man forged in pain and heartbreak, a man who knew full well what it meant to have loved and lost, and still, if ever, unable and unwilling to accept that loss.

He'd looked like that when he'd come back from Israel without Ziva, when he'd told them she wasn't coming back. And she'd known then something had happened between them, something poignant, yet she'd never gathered the courage to ask. She hadn't wanted to pry.

But after a while, he'd reverted back to the old Tony. Maybe not full-on old Tony, there had always been a sliver of sadness in his eyes even then, but after learning of Ziva's death and having disappeared for more than three months...He'd changed. They'd all changed, but he'd been impacted the most, and she feared—no, she knew, he'd never recover. Not fully.

"So," she said as cheerfully as she could, "where have you been?"

"Like you don't know, Abbs."

She didn't. Not really. She'd helped Gibbs track him at first, she and McGee, but then he'd fallen off the grid, and Gibbs flew solo from then on. Lucky for them Gibbs knew how to find people who didn't want to be found.

"Tell me anyway. Did you see the sights?"

A corner of his mouth turned up slightly. A very Gibbs-like gesture, she thought. But the two men were more alike now than ever. "If you count the interior of every bar from here and Fuckville, North Carolina sights, then yes."

She winced as much for the every-bar comment as the made-up city name. He's never used such language before. It was disconcerting, and somewhat frightening, seeing such drastic changes in him, beside the obvious exterior ones.

"I see," was all she could muster. "Well, you're back now, so..."

"So…"

They stood there in rather uncomfortable silence and she had no idea as what to say to fill that void. It was as if she shared her lab with a stranger. A stranger with a familiar face, but a stranger nonetheless.

The silence was so heavy and so utterly uncomfortable, she almost kissed McGee when he came to ask them whether they wanted to grab something to eat.


	4. Chapter 3

"Anthony." Dr. Mallard sat on the bench beside Tony. "How are you, lad?"

"I'm fine, Ducky."

"Hmm."

He's been listening to Jethro, Timothy, and Abigail for days. They were sick and tired of listening to Tony repeating what used to be Ziva's mantra while she'd worked with them. I'm fine. I'm okay. I'm good.

They could all see he wasn't fine, he wasn't okay, and he wasn't good. He was still too thin. He was still too pale. He might not be drinking himself to death anymore, but he was far from fine, okay or good. He needed to talk. Talk to someone. Talk about Ziva. And they all thought Ducky was the right man for the job.

The man in question wasn't that confident. There was remoteness, a coldness even, to Tony of late. The lad has built a wall around him and Ducky suspected it would take more than a few pithy words in addition to a willing ear to even open a slight breach in that wall.

"Timothy told me you've been having lunch alone these days," he continued. "I thought you might want some company."

"Not really." A sigh. "I'm sorry, Ducky, but I don't feel very sociable."

Ducky nodded. "I understand perfectly, Anthony. The fact remains everybody is very concerned about you." He spoke quickly when the younger man opened his mouth. "And your reassurances sound rather false."

"Ducky..."

"You need to talk to someone, lad. Jethro told me you refused seeing the psychologist." He smiled slightly, though Tony wasn't looking at him. "I'm a good listener, Anthony, and I can guarantee what we talk about I shall take to my grave."

"Ducky..."

"We all loved her," Ducky continued. "And we all have to deal with this terrible loss, but there is no reason to have to suffer through it, deal with it alone. We _all_ loved her, Anthony."

"Not like I loved her, Ducky."

Aha. There it was. The fact there had been more than a work relationship, more than friendship between Ziva and Tony was no secret. It had been obvious almost from the start. The glances, the smiles, the teasing, the protectiveness, the jealousy...At first it had been merely a fascination and admiration, that had turned into infatuation, that had slowly grown into love. Strong, unbreakable, unconditional love.

They had all seen it. Even Gibbs. Leroy Jethro Gibbs that oftentimes seemed so remote, so detached from everything had known what was between the partners and had tried to protect them from getting hurt, but knew it was futile.

Rule #12, 'never date a co-worker', might have prevented them from culminating their relationship, but there was no Gibbs rule preventing someone from _loving_ a co-worker. And Gibbs had known it, and had known the two would eventually get hurt.

It was because of that Gibbs had been the one who'd insisted the most for Ducky to try and get Tony to talk.

And it looked the boy was finally ready to talk.

"Not the way I loved her, Ducky," he repeated. "I loved her. I still do. And...And sometimes it's so hard. Knowing she's not here anymore, that I won't see her at work, look into her eyes, see her smile."

"Has anything happened between you two? Before." While you still worked together.

Tony shook his head. "No," he whispered. "Maybe it would've, if I hadn't been such a coward. We wasted eight years."

"Anthony," Ducky admonished softly. Yet the boy never mentioned the fatidic rule.

"I was such a coward. I never told her. Never. Not even...Not even when we said goodbye."

"What happened in Israel?"

Tony shrugged, swallowed. "When that sniper took a shot at me, I was going to see her."

Yes, that was rather common knowledge.

"We weren't co-workers anymore by then." A deprecating smile. "All bets were off. I asked her if she wanted company and she said yes." A chuckle. "Bets were definitely off."

He grew silent and Ducky waited patiently, willing him to continue, willing him to get the burden off his chest, even a little.

"When I finally went searching for her, she was already off the grid. It took me weeks to find her."

Another long, pregnant pause.

"And when I found her...I just wanted to grab her and take her home."

"But she refused," Ducky murmured.

"Yeah, said it was better if she stayed. That she was only endangering us all, endangering me. That she was Eli's daughter and she would always be a target because of that."

"Did you try to change her mind?"

"Yeah." The word was barely a whisper. "I did. Didn't do a very good job, obviously."

Ducky suspected if Anthony had just laid his heart bare in front of her Ziva would've returned with him. They would've all tried to make it work.

"I should've told her then, I guess," Tony continued. "Maybe it would've made her change her mind."

"But you didn't."

"No, I didn't." Ducky saw him make a fist. "She was the one who said it."

"Oh, my."

"At the airport. She told me I was loved."

And you didn't reply? What is wrong with you? Ducky wanted to ask, but didn't. "And?"

"I kissed her. And got on the plane."

Ducky watched the emotions play on Tony's face. Love, guilt, anger.

"You see, Ducky. It _is_ my fault she's dead. If I'd have said it, if I'd have just said I loved her, she would've boarded that plane with me."

"You cannot know that, Anthony."

"Yes, I do. Because she wanted me to say it." Tony finally turned to look at Ducky. "She waited for me to say it. And I didn't. She'd still be alive, if I did." He stood. "And so would I."

And he walked away, leaving Ducky sitting on the bench, his heart breaking for him. And for the ghost of the woman who walked beside him.


	5. Chapter 4

He told everybody he was fine. That everything was just peachy. He told everybody he didn't need to see a shrink, either one working for NCIS or one he had to pay for himself.

Tony chuckled in the darkness, laying on his bed, an arm curved under his head.

If they could see him right now, they'd probably strap him into a straight-jacket and lock him up into a white, padded room.

"You know," he murmured, waiting for the sun to rise, "I actually finished that 'I will' list."

Ziva smiled at him from the foot of his bed. "You did?"

"Hmmm."

"What did you write in it?"

He shook his head. "Oh, no. I'm not telling. You didn't show me yours, I won't show you mine."

"Mine is buried in Israel, yours is here somewhere." She smirked. "I know I'll find it eventually. Or convince you to show it to me."

"You think me easy?"

"No, not easy, Tony," she said softly. "Never easy. You are..."

"Handsome? Funny?" He swallowed loudly as he realized he was echoing their conversation on that tarmac in Israel so long ago. Closed his eyes. "What?"

Silence. Then a whispered, "Loved."

He opened his eyes and found himself alone. The first sun rays crept into his bedroom and she was gone. As always, when daylight came, she went away. Leaving him alone. Alone to face yet another day without her.

He slowly sat up in bed and scratched his chest. As always, his fingers brushed against the golden chain he kept around his neck, close to his heart. The necklace with a golden Star of David she'd slipped into his pocket as they kissed.

Had she known back then, it would've turned into his only connection to her?

True, he still had the pictures...The ones taken at different birthday parties throughout the years, those of her in a bikini that had helped him remain sane those four months he'd spent at sea. But the necklace had been _hers_.

He glanced at his bedside table and smiled wistfully. There, in a silver frame, was his absolute favorite photograph of her. The one from Paris.

She was so beautiful his heart ached. Every time he looked at that picture, his heart broke, yet he refused to put it away. This way he felt she watched over him as he slept. As he dreamed of her. As she visited him when the sun started to rise.

He missed her so much it hurt.

And every time he thought about spending the rest of his life without her, of all those empty, sad years ahead of him, he almost...

He shook his head, silently berating himself for even contemplating it.

He remembered a quote from a book she'd recommended one night when they'd all gone out for drinks together. She'd raved about that book, actually. He'd never before seen her so excited about a book, so he'd decided to see what all the fuss was about. It had turned out to be a series, and he'd ended up devouring it in a couple of days. And he'd actually liked it. He'd never told her that.

_'The man that dies escapes. Plain and simple. Game over. End of pain...Try living for someone. Through it all—good, bad, thick, thin, joy, suffering. That's the hard thing.'_*

So every time he thought about eating a bullet, he thought of that book, of that quote. He owed it to her to be strong, to do the hard thing.

"Okay, DiNozzo," he said to himself, looking at his reflection in the mirror. "Enough with the melodrama. She'd go all ninja on your ass if she could see you now. If she could hear you."

He slapped himself for good measure. "Get your head out of your ass and go to work!"

* * *

* Quote from _Shadowfever_ by Karen Marie Moning.


	6. Chapter 5

It was Friday, the last day of work for this particular week. Unless something happened, that is. He only needed to finish the report and he'd be able to go home. Into darkness and silence. He needed darkness and silence after the last few days. After the week they've all been through. But he didn't want to dwell on the details of their last case. It was over and done. Just a few finishing touches on the report and it would be over and done for good.

Tony could literally feel the restlessness that's been plaguing him, plaguing them all, leave his body. Even Tim looked ready to relax. He guessed the younger agent has had enough as well, despite the fact the last case was just right up his alley of almost sci-fi gadgets and gizmos.

Everybody was slowly relaxing, even the new addition to their team. Though he suspected that new addition would soon turned out to be a former addition. It's not that they didn't appreciate the help and effort, it was just...Well, each new probie they were assigned soon realized they weren't entirely welcome. And not just into their little three-man team. They could feel the frost emanating from the lead forensic expert and the two MEs as well.

It took a special person to sit behind the desk in front of McGee's—Tony has asked Tim to switch desks as soon as he's come back to work, he couldn't look at it empty or filled by someone not worthy of sitting there—and each new occupant quickly saw that. And just as quickly they realized they weren't that 'special'.

Tony hit the save button and sent the finished report to the printer, frowning at the notion that everybody bar one was actually relaxing. Gibbs, the staid, zen, unflappable Leroy Jetro Gibbs, has been dashing up and down the stairs like a headless-chicken for the better part of the day. And saying Gibbs and headless-chicken in the same sentence was sure to be a blasphemy.

It's started with a terse order from Director Vance in the morning that made him rush up the stairs, two steps at a time, and into MTAC. He's been distracted in the field, constantly checking his phone, and replying to sporadic phone calls more cryptically that usual. He's even forego the interrogation of the killer, leaving the job to Tony and Tim.

If Tony didn't know better he'd think the man was retiring and grooming the two of them to be his replacements.

He inserted the printed report into a folder, when Gibbs returned to the bullpen, and stopped in front of his desk.

"Going home, DiNozzo?"

Tony looked up, somewhat surprised. Gibbs never asked questions that had such obvious answers.

"Yeah."

"I might have something for you to do before you head home."

Running errands? "Okay."

Gibbs glanced up to the upper floor. "I'll get back to you, Tony."

The boss only used his name for special occasions. What was going on? "Okay. I'll just go file this." He lifted the report folder.

He returned a few minutes later to find Vance standing in the bullpen, waiting for Gibbs to finish his phone call. He was taken aback by the slight smile playing on Vance's lips.

Vance smiling, Gibbs all aflutter, it looked like an epidemic. He was glad he wasn't the only one noticing it, judging by McGee's expression.

Tony glanced at his watch and pulled on his jacket. "Boss?"

Gibbs finally seemed to relax as he looked at him. "There's a C-130 landing at Andrews in an hour. I need you to pick up something for me."

One hour less to enjoy his solitude. "Sure, no problem. What is it?"

"You'll know when you see it, Agent DiNozzo," Vance replied instead of Gibbs.

"Where do you want it delivered?"

Gibbs smirked. "You decide after you see what it is."

Vance glanced at his watch. "It's pretty late, so the traffic shouldn't be bad. I'd get on my way if I were you."

Tony glanced at McGee that simply shrugged. They both knew a dismissal when they heard one.

.

.

The plane was late. He stood there on an airstrip in Andrews, fighting the urge to turn and giving the sniper that he was sure was keeping an eye on him through the scope the bird.

Tony huffed and stuck his hands deeper into his pockets. So much for spending the night in the peace and quiet of his empty apartment. No, his boss and his director had to arrange for this strange pick up at the end of the work-week, in the middle of the freaking night.

If it wasn't for his respect for Gibbs he'd have left this damned airstrip half an hour ago, when he'd realized the C-130 wouldn't be landing on time. Not that anyone has advised him of the delay. And it was his respect for Gibbs, and the threat of multiple Gibbs-slaps, that prevented him from seeking refuge in this car. If he sat behind the wheel, he'd probably be halfway to his apartment before he knew it.

What was so important it could not have waited until Monday to be delivered and picked up? And why did Gibbs and Vance have to send him? Tim was free. Wasn't he? He didn't really know. He sighed softly. He's been keeping everybody at a distance, which meant he had no idea. He probably should've felt a little guilty over the fact he's been neglecting Tim for the past months, ignoring Abby, snapping at Palmer...But he didn't. He just couldn't muster the effort...To care.

He knew he was being a bastard. He _knew_ that, damn it. But it was easier this way. Keeping everybody at arm's length kept them from asking questions, making soothing noises...Wanting to help. They couldn't help. No one could.

Gibbs was the only one who understood. He'd experienced it himself. And he's served as his buffer for the past months. Quelling any too annoying questions or soothing noises. For that alone he owed it to the man to stay here and wait for his damn package.

Which would be arriving very shortly, because the C-130 finally landed.

"About time," he muttered and stepped back instinctively as the plane taxied past him.

He waited for the cargo door to lower and tried peering into the gloomy interior for a peek to what might be carried or transported out.

For a few moments the plane appeared to be empty, and he was about to call Gibbs, when something finally moved. A figure slowly emerged and walked slowly down the lowered cargo door. It paused slightly when it hit the runway as if looking for someone. The passenger, dressed in a large, dark hoodie, the hood pulled up over the head, carried only a backpack. Tony suspected it was that backpack or its contents that he's been sent to pick up.

Before he could call out, the hooded figure spotted him. It looked like they've drawn a breath as if bracing before starting walking slowly toward him.

The greeting died on Tony's lips when the figure approached. The gait looked familiar, the smooth, flowing stride of a trained dancer. Or fighter. The plane's sole passenger was on the smaller side, the body, despite the bulky sweatshirt, looked slim and lithe.

His heart in his throat and his breath shallow he watched as the figure stopped in front of him, the top of the head reaching his chin. A few heartbeats passed without either of them moving a muscle. Then the hood was off, revealing a mop of short, unruly, brown curls.

And the breath he's been holding exploded out of his chest.


	7. Chapter 6

_Eight months before_

He could've sworn every single bone in his body hurt. Every single muscle. Every single nerve ending was screaming in protest as his battered body slowly, oh-so slowly, started repairing from the inside. He knew Tobias would smirk and tell him he was getting too old for this. For getting beat up by a punk half-his age, thrown around like a rag-doll...

Though he was really glad the idiot who'd attacked him had thrown him into the bed of his pick-up. Where he kept his crowbar just for emergencies like that. Well, maybe not for emergencies of that kind, but one never knew when a crowbar might come in handy.

Still, prior to the crowbar-meet-head move, the punk had administered quite a beating. He had bruises, scratches, and aches to prove it. God only knew when he'd be able to look into a mirror and see his normal face, without bruises, without the purple left eye, staring back at him.

It would be a while yet.

He shuffled into his kitchen to get a beer. If Ducky were there he'd probably give him a long speech about mixing pain-killers with alcohol and as usual he wouldn't listen. It was beer for Pete's sake, not the bourbon he kept stashed in his basement. Well, if everything didn't hurt so much, he'd probably go down there and drink that, but he wasn't convinced he was ready to deal with the stairs in his current condition. He'd just sleep on the couch tonight. And drink the beer. But first he could avail himself of the other great characteristic of fresh-out-of-the-fridge beer.

He pressed the cold bottle to his aching left cheek, but was barely able to enjoy it when his phone rang.

He slowly walked to the table where he left the damn thing, contemplating who might be calling him at this hour. He hoped they didn't have another murder, because he knew he needed at least one night to recuperate enough to not strangle anyone at work that spoke to him. If it was Fornell calling from the hospital to complain about being shot in the ass, he might not even pick up. And if it was DiNozzo asking for more time, when it had been clear from that last conversation in MTAC that the man has already located Ziva, he might just tell him to fuck off.

He wasn't in a mood to be magnanimous toward his agent.

When he opened his cell, expecting to see a familiar caller ID, he saw just numbers. And when he saw those particular initial three numbers, the country code that told him the caller wasn't anywhere near him, every seething remark died on his lips and he could feel his heart sinking.

He knew who was calling him and he also knew, not suspected, _knew_ what they might say, that he contemplated not answering. But he knew he had to. He owed it to both of them.

So he took a swig of his beer, pressed the accept button, and brought the phone to his ear.

He sighed when she said his name. Then replied, "Hey, Ziver."

He was braced for what she might say next, but he didn't expect what she _did_ say next.

"What?" he barked, unable to comprehend just what she was asking him. "Why?"

The explanation made sense. Too much sense. She was saying all the right things, but not everything, not the things she should be saying.

"Ziva," he tried to interrupt her, but she wouldn't be deterred. She had a plan, a good one, she just needed someone's help to finish it on his side of the ocean.

"Ziva," he said again. "Why are you doing this?"

She was silent for so long he thought he lost her. Then she finally told him what he needed to hear, what he expected to hear. And he smiled. It was about time.

"We'll need to be able to communicate freely," he said.

She didn't want anyone to know, especially no one from the immediate family that was their team, but he knew just the right person to go to. Someone who wanted her back as much as everybody else, bar DiNozzo, that is. And that person had all the means necessary to make their plan work.

"I'll make it happen, Ziva," he said, feeling energized despite the aches in his body. "I'll let you know when. What about—"

She interrupted him, telling him what he already knew. The less people knew about it, the better. For the next few months, they'd all be under intense scrutiny, those closest to her even more than the rest, and the less they knew, the easier her plan would work. It needed to be convincing. And if McGee, Ducky, Abby, Palmer, and especially Tony really thought she was dead, whoever was watching them, gouging their reaction, would believe it, too.

The more believable the reaction, the more convinced the watchers would be. And what reaction to the death of someone dear to them was more believable than true grief?

"Are you sure about this?" he asked once more.

She didn't hesitate in replying, telling him she'd be waiting to hear from him.

When he heard the dial tone, he remained there, sitting at the table, his phone in one hand, the beer in the other, a smile playing on his lips.

He might be losing a good agent, but he won't lose a member of his family. She was doing this for all of them, her friends, her family. And she was doing it for herself. Wiping the slate clean, a new start, a fresh start. She might be doing it alone, physically, but she'd have all the support she needed. And after it was done, she'd never be alone again. He'd make sure of it. They all would.

But what made him smile, was what she said when he'd repeated the question of why she was doing it.

She was doing it for him. Stopping this—the pain, the sadness, the ugliness her current reality held—for him. He didn't have to ask who the 'him' was.

He leaned back and looked out his window. "I hope you don't blow it this time, DiNozzo."


	8. Chapter 7

Tony unlocked his apartment door, and held it open for Ziva to precede him. He followed her, and slammed the door closed behind him. She flinched slightly and he smiled grimly. Not counting his terse "Get in" at the airport, they haven't spoken. Not in the car on their way here, not on the stairs...Not a word.

He didn't trust himself to speak. Because he was afraid of what might come out of his mouth. Something along the lines of "I missed you", "I love you", "I'm never letting you go". And he couldn't afford to be soft right now. He didn't feel soft right now. He was angry.

No, forget angry. He was fucking pissed off.

At her for appearing out of thin air—okay, it was a plane—for letting him think she was dead. He'd contemplated eating a bullet because of that! Many times. And he was pissed off at Gibbs and Vance. Because those two must have known, she was alive all along. They've arranged for him to pick her up, _mocking him_ as to where he might take 'the package' after it arrived. He was pissed off at Gibbs for letting him think she was dead, letting him grieve, letting him slowly destroy himself in those first three months.

It's something you don't forget. And something you can't forgive. Not Gibbs. Not Ziva. Despite the words running around his head, wanting to spill out of his mouth.

He wasn't in a forgiving mood.

He stared hard at her. She hasn't moved. She was standing in the middle of his living room, back to him, ramrod straight. Quiet and still. With a snarl, he stalked past her into his kitchen, and poured himself a glass of scotch. He gulped it down, relishing the burn, because it washed down all those mushy words, leaving him clear-headed for the first time since the surprise at the airport.

Surprise, his ass. It had been more like a bullet to the gut.

He ground his teeth together as he felt her behind him. He counted to ten, slammed the glass down onto the kitchen counter, and turned.

He wanted to curse seeing that impassive mask on her face. He fucking hated that mask, her beautiful face devoid of all emotion, the eyes empty and cold. Well, two could play this game. Only he preferred playing it with a different mask on.

He leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and smiled mockingly. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Zee-vah."

She narrowed her eyes slightly and he gave himself a mental pat on the back. She hated it whenever he drew out her name like that. That's why he did it now. Why should he be the only one angry?

"You look good for someone who's recently risen from the grave." He cocked his head, making his lips curl even more. "You must have showered. Not a speck of dirt or a maggot on you."

She sighed and the mask was suddenly gone. "Tony," she said softly. "I know you are angry. I know you are...hurt. But I...It had to be done."

"Oh, you're right on the angry part, darling," he drawled mockingly. "Though the word _is_ rather mellow compared to what I'm really feeling right now."

Another sigh, but she remained silent.

"It had to be done, huh?" he prompted. "What had to be done? You pretend-dying? Letting me believe you really died? Letting everybody laugh behind my back for believing it?!"

The last question was a yell and she flinched again. He didn't care.

"Nobody laughed behind your back, Tony," she whispered. "No one knew."

"Gibbs did." And that rankled.

She nodded. "Gibbs did."

"And Vance."

Another tiny nod. "And Vance. Because of his resources as Director."

"And Gibbs?" he inquired. "Why did Gibbs know?" _Why did Gibbs know and not me?_

"I called him. After..." She swallowed. "Asked him to help me."

She asked Gibbs to help her. She didn't ask him to help her. She trusted Gibbs. She didn't trust him.

What he was thinking must have shown on his face, because she hastily continued. "The less people knew about it, the better. I asked Gibbs to help...Gibbs knew, because he would not have been watched as closely as you."

"Watched for what?" he snapped.

"To determine whether I was really dead."

"Oh." He laughed. It was mirthless, though. "And we, lesser mortals, provided the needed proof. Right? We grieved you, because we thought you were actually dead. And we sold it, didn't we?"

Another nod and he wanted to hurl the glass at the wall. It had all been a ruse and he, idiot that he was, had fallen for it. He'd mourned her, cried for her, almost fell apart for her. And all this time she'd been somewhere laughing her little black heart out, plotting with Gibbs and Vance to...What? Get a new life?

"Well, I'm glad we idiots could help."

"You are not idiots," she whispered. "You are not an idiot, Tony. Can you not see why I did it? I know you are hurt, I know you probably hate me right now, but can you not see _why_ I did it?"

"Why don't you enlighten me, Zee-vah."

There was no flinch, no narrowing of eyes at the name. Her eyes slowly filled with tears and a fist closed around his heart.

"I thought..." She paused, swallowed loudly, blinked. "After you left, I thought it all might work out, but as I left the airport, they were waiting for me."

"Who?"

She shrugged. "I do not know. I did not ask them. When I returned to the house, it had been ransacked. And I realized I could not stop it. It would never stop. Not until I was dead."

A tear spilled down her cheek, but he didn't move. If he touched her right now, he'd be lost.

She brushed impatiently at her cheek. "For me to have some kind of normal life. For me to..." Her gaze softened even more and he held his breath. "...keep everybody I loved safe, have a normal relationship, have a family of my own...Ziva David had to die."

He exhaled, disappointed at what she said. And what she didn't say. "And we had to sell it."

"You, Tony."

He nodded, the mocking smile directed at himself this time. "Right. Because I was closely watched."

"Yes."

"Oh, please, Ziva. Do you even hear what you're saying?" He chuckled. "We've been partners for eight years, sure, but there has never been anything more between us."

Her eyes widened and she gasped shakily.

Now he laughed. "You're thinking about that kiss. Come on, Zee-vah. You decided to stay in Israel." He shrugged. "I wanted to see what it was like. Curiosity, nothing more." He shrugged. "And since I boarded that plane it's obvious it wasn't anything special."

Her head snapped up and she looked like he's just stabbed her in the heart. That's what he's been aiming at with that lie—a lie that's tasted so bitter—and he immediately regretted saying it. What was wrong with him? Lashing out like that. He barely recognized himself. And he certainly didn't like himself at the moment.

She slowly composed herself, blinking back tears, schooling her features into not betraying any emotion...It took some effort and it was evident.

"I lied," she whispered. "I said the words on my 'will' were meant for Gibbs, that I wanted it to stop for Gibbs...I lied." Although her eyes weren't swimming with tears, her heart was in them and that fist around his own hear squeezed even harder. "I wanted to stop it for you."

He didn't speak. He stared at her. Hard.

"I am sorry if I hurt you, Tony. I am sorry for everything that I had done wrong." She blinked furiously again, keeping tears at bay. "But there is one thing I am not sorry for. I will never be sorry for loving you." She smiled. "It made me see my life for what it truly was and it made me want to change. Loving you made me realize what I was missing. It made me see what I could have, what I should have. You made me want to change, become a different person. And I will always be grateful for that." Tears once more spilled down her cheeks, but she didn't brush them away. "I love you, Anthony DiNozzo. And I will never regret it."

He couldn't move. He could barely breathe. He just stood there, leaning back against his kitchen counter, watching her turn and walk toward his front door.


	9. Chapter 8

Making _aliyah_. To Jews around the world it meant coming home, going home to Israel.

For the woman whose name used to be Ziva David, Israel was no longer home. Yes, it was her homeland, the land she was born in, where her blood family was buried...But it wasn't home. Not anymore. It hasn't been home in eight years.

She's been preparing to make her _aliyah_ for the past eight months. And she was here...Only 'home' didn't want her.

All of a sudden, her surroundings became blurry and she knew tears were spilling down her cheeks. Her knees were shaking, her hands were shaking..._She_ was shaking. And there was this strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, a lump in her throat...Oh, God.

_Please, please,_ please_, don't let me break down now._

She couldn't break down. Not now. Not in the middle of Tony DiNozzo's living room. She had to keep going, she had to keep quiet. No sobbing, no wailing...There would be time for that later. Once she left his apartment. Once she sought refuge with Gibbs. She'd break down then. He'd understand. At least she hoped he would. He'd pat her on the back "There, there, Ziver", offer his couch, muttered something about Tony being an idiot and deserving every single head-slap he'd ever delivered.

Only Tony wasn't an idiot. God, she understood his reaction. It broke her heart, but she understood. He was hurt, she hurt him. How would she react if their roles were reversed?

Still, she'd hoped. She'd hoped he'd hug her at the airport, wrap his arms around her, welcoming her home. She'd hoped he'd embrace her in his apartment, kiss her, tell her he would never let her go again...No, she was the idiot in this picture.

Of course he didn't want her, despite what that kiss eight months ago might had meant, despite what his reasons for coming and find her in Israel had been. Who would want someone like her? Damaged beyond repair by what she's done, what had been done to her. Hands dripping with blood, heart cold and empty. Only it didn't feel cold and empty when she was with him, when she was with her family.

Still, no matter what she did or said, there was and always would be blood on her hands. Who would want someone like that?

A sob broke from between her lips and she knew her time was up. She needed to get out of this apartment. Away from him, before she embarrassed herself any further.

She made her lungs draw in silent breaths, made her legs move toward that door that seemed so far away. One step at a time, one leg in front of the other. She made her fingers curl around the doorknob, twist. It took her four tries, but she finally turned it. She was such a mess.

And she needed to get out of there!

Yet everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. _Hurry! Hurry! Get out of here!_ The doorknob slowly turned, the door oh-so slowly opened...And slammed shut with a loud crack.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Ziva looked up from her fingers still curled around the doorknob. There, just on the left of her face was a hand. The hand that has shut the door before she could get out. The hand belonging to the male body. A fuming male body judging from the harsh breaths and waves of anger coming from behind her.

"Just where the fuck do you think you're going?" he growled, crowding her against the door.

She's never heard him use such language before. Come to think of it, she's never seen him so angry before.

"Out of here," she whispered, not trusting her voice not to break.

"Really?" he asked, his voice silky. "And when you get out of here, then what?"

"I'm going to Gibbs'—"

"The fuck you are!" he snarled. "You're not going to Gibbs' place, you're not going anywhere!"

"You made it clear—"

"Clear, my ass. You can't drop a bomb like that on a guy and expect him to just take it lying down."

She felt his other hand on her elbow and she shuddered, shook it off. He must not touch her right now! If he touched her, she'd break down, and she couldn't do that in front of him. Enough was enough.

"Let me go."

"No."

"Let me go, Tony," her voice broke on the last syllable and she started shaking.

"You're. Not. Going. Anywhere."

"Please," she whimpered, sickened by the tiny sobs escaping her throat, the spasms shaking her body.

"No," he repeated, his voice gentler, calmer. "Turn around."

She shook her head and whimpered again, when he put both his hands on her shoulders and slowly turned her.

"Look at me," he whispered, but she kept her head down, not daring to look up, not wanting him to see her like this.

Another whimper escaped, when she felt him tuck his finger under her chin and force her head up. He was all blurry, when she finally looked at him, and she blinked furiously, trying to bring him into focus. She shuddered when he cupped her face in his palms and used his thumbs to gently wipe her tears away.

She couldn't take it, this tenderness. She'd rather see him incensed, glaring at her, telling her the kiss didn't mean anything to him, telling her he never wanted her, never cared for her the way she hoped. Why was he being gentle?

"Did you mean it?" he asked softly. "Was it all for me?"

She just stared at him, at his eyes, so different from when he looked at her in the kitchen. There was a swirl of emotions in those eyes, emotions she didn't dare identify.

"Do you love me?"

God, he had to ask. He had to ask in that voice, with that expression on his face, with that look in his eyes, with his hands cupping her face, thumbs gently stroking. He had to ask.

"Do you love me, Ziva?"

She couldn't bring herself to answer. Because she wasn't sure there would be words coming out of her mouth if she opened it. So she merely nodded.

The smile that spread over his face, utterly transforming it, almost made her heart stop. Then, eyes wide, she watched his face lower toward hers, his eyes zeroing in on her mouth. And then his lips were on hers, gently brushing, and she closed her eyes. He exerted just the right amount of pressure with his thumbs to make her lips part. As his tongue slipped past her lips, the backpack slid from her fingers, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

She let him lean her gently back against the door. His palms still cupping her face, he slowly angled her head just so and deepened the kiss. Their tongues danced, mated, and she lifted her hands to lay her fingers on his wrists. It was heaven, it was torture, and she never wanted him to stop.

After what seemed like an eternity, and with a last feather-light brush of lips against lips, he finally lifted his head. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to look at him, not daring to look at him. He was silent for so long, once more brushing his thumbs softly over her cheeks, she knew he was waiting for her to open her eyes.

She slowly lifted her eyelids, focusing her gaze first on his lips, before letting her eyes travel up to meet his. He was still looking at her with all those emotions in his eyes and her heart skipped a beat.

"I lied," he finally said and something heavy settled in her stomach. "When I said it wasn't special. The kiss," he elaborated. "It was the hardest thing in my life, boarding that plane, leaving you there."

She was surprised her eyes remained dry this time.

"I was such an ass before. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all those things to you. But it was either that or kiss you and fuck you blind against the wall." The smile was rueful. "I needed an explanation."

The next breath she took was shaky.

He sighed. "When they told me you were dead, I..." He shook his head. "I wanted to die, too. Because what I told you in Somalia was the truth. I can't live without you."

Tears were blurring her vision once more.

"I love you, Ziva David."

She burst into tears.


	10. Chapter 9

_What the...?_

Tony had envisioned what would follow his confession of love...But he'd been thinking more along the lines of kissing each other senseless, neck like crazy against the door, and then moving to his bedroom and to his bed. He's been waiting for this moment for eight freaking years! He sure as hell didn't expect her to burst into tears.

He had no idea what to do. Not that he hasn't yet had the 'pleasure' of dealing with a crying female, he's just never had the pleasure of dealing with a crying Ziva. At least not crying as she was doing now.

What did it mean, anyway? Was it good? Bad? Somewhere in between? And what was expected of him at this precise moment?

Deciding he'd simply wing it, he pulled her against his chest, closed his arms around her trembling frame, tucked her head under his chin, and simply held her. He didn't say a word, just stroked his palm up and down her spine.

Damn, it felt good.

Damn, it felt good to hold her, feel her against him. Alive. Jesus, she was alive.

And he'd almost let her slip out of his grasp. Again. He mentally kicked himself. Idiot! Yeah, he'd been pissed off. Royally. But what the hell?! Pissed off or not, she'd been there, in his kitchen, handing him her heart on a silver platter and he'd just stood there. Idiot!

Even seeing her walk out of the kitchen, into his living room, toward the door, back straight, head held high, hadn't spurred him into action. Only when she'd had her hand around the doorknob, opening the door, he'd finally moved. Only the thought of her walking out of his apartment, out of his life—again—had snapped him out of his stupor. He'd straightened, and rushed after her, reaching her just in time to shut the door closed.

And even then he'd not been feeling very amicable. The thought of her leaving him again had pissed him off even more. And it had showed. In the tension in his muscles, in his clenched jaw, in his voice, in his words. No wonder she hadn't wanted to turn, look at him.

She'd shook him off, but he'd finally started to function semi-normally by then. And instead of getting angrier, he'd finally noticed the tremors in her body, the hitch in her voice. She'd been crying, and he, the idiotic oaf that he was, had been making things even worse. So he'd clamped down on the anger, on the resentment...on the fear...and had treated her the way she was supposed to be treated. Gently, tenderly.

And the look on her face, the tears in her eyes, when he'd finally got her to look at him, had broken his heart. He'd put that look on her face, he'd made her cry.

No more! He'd sworn it to himself, and her, in that moment, he was done hurting her, making her cry. Yes, she'd made him believe she was dead, she'd told Gibbs and not him—he'd talk to his boss about that—but she had her reasons.

She'd done it for him. Because she loved him.

Didn't she?

He'd had to ask.

And she'd nodded. And he'd forgiven her. How could he not? Then he'd kissed her, told her he loved her. And she'd burst into tears.

Tony had no idea how long they stood there, in front of his door, she clinging to him, him stroking her back, her hair comfortingly. He finally noticed she'd cut her hair. It was just long enough to brush her shoulders, the curls twining around his fingers as if to keep him there. He liked it.

He dropped a soft kiss onto the top of her head, murmuring his love for her into the unruly curls as her sobs were slowly turning into soft whimpers, her body no longer trembling.

She burrowed even closer to him, plastered herself against his chest for a moment longer, before she moved slightly away.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"Don't be," he murmured. "You needed it. We both did."

She looked at him, then quickly averted her eyes. "I am a mess."

Tony once more tucked his finger under her chin, made her look at him again. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her cheeks shiny with drying tears, the tip of her nose red...And she'd never looked more beautiful.

He told her so and grinned at seeing the blush spread across her cheeks.

"Wow, I just made you blush," he teased and watched the pink spread from her cheeks to her ears and down her throat. "I like it," he murmured.

She smiled and brushed her sleeve over her nose. "Of course, you do."

He stopped grinning, devouring her with his gaze. She was so beautiful it hurt...And that smile. God, what that smile did to him. She had no idea what she did to him.

Something in his expression made her take a small step back, and he tightened his hands around her upper arms.

"Tony," she whispered. "Stop looking at me like that."

Like what? Like he wanted to kiss her until they ran out of air? Like he wanted to rip off her clothes and fuck her blind against the wall? Like he wanted to take her to his bed and make love to her for days?

"Tony..."

With a growl, he curled one arm around her waist, plunged the other hand into her hair, and took her mouth in a ravenous, wild kiss.

She parted her lips immediately, granting him entrance and moaned as he slipped his tongue into her mouth, tangling it with her own. He angled her head a little more, and deepened the kiss, tasting her, teasing her. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and she transformed from the shaky, timid girl he'd held in his arms and comforted, into a passionate, excited woman.

He loved both of them. The girl and the woman.

She groaned, tightened her grip around his neck, and jumped. He caught her around the waist as she circled his hips with her legs, plastered her torso against his own.

And then, she took over the kiss.

He wasn't complaining. Not when she delved her tongue deep, slid it against his own, not when she bit his lower lip as he pushed her back against the door, not when she curled one hand against the back of his neck and let the fingers of the other tunnel in his hair as her tongue stroked his. Just. Right.

Nope, he wasn't complaining. He had the woman he loved in his arms, undulating against his body, kissing him as if she'd die if she didn't.

When they finally came up for air, he merely growled her name, and buried his face in her neck, gently biting, laving the tender spot under her ear with his tongue, dropping soft open-mouthed kisses under her chin, up and down her throat, enjoying her ever-deepening moans, the movement of her body against his.

She was driving him insane!

He leaned her upper body against the wall to help her get the long-sleeved tee off and went back to kissing her neck. As his lips traveled down, toward her shoulder, he pushed her bra straps off, and licked her collarbone. He freed her breasts, clamped his lips around one nipple, licked it, gently bit it, plucking at the other one with his fingers, using the sounds coming from her mouth as a roadmap to what would make her as crazed at he was at the moment.

He released her nipple and lavished his attention to its mate, letting his fingers play with the one he'd worshipped with his mouth. Then, both hands on her breasts, he moved up, leaving a trail of wet kisses from her nipple to her shoulder, up her neck, until he once more reached her mouth.

He's lost track of time. Track of anything but their ragged breaths and sounds of pleasure.

Mindless with lust, he unbuttoned her cargo pants, and slid his hand inside, pushing the zipper down. She moaned and her head dropped back against the wall when he brushed the tips of his fingers over her sex. She was swollen and wet and she moved against his hand, begging for a deeper caress. He flicked her clit and she groaned, rubbed herself against his hand. He pushed two fingers inside her, and her eyes slid closed on a long moan. He pumped his fingers, once twice, flicked her clit with his thumb, and she shattered.

Tony grinned. She looked magnificent. Head thrown back, the tendons in her neck straining, eyes closed, back arched, making her flushed breasts, nipples rosy and pebbled, thrust toward him and he couldn't resist another taste. At the first pull of his mouth on her nipple, he could feel the convulsions that have been slowly subsiding, start anew against his fingers still buried inside her.

Sweet Jesus.

And he couldn't stand it anymore. He was so hard it hurt. He needed to get inside her, needed to feel her spasm against him, over him.

He slipped his hand out of her pants, pushed them down her hips just enough and went to work on his jeans. Her hands were immediately there to assist, and when she slipped her hand inside his boxers and gently curled her fingers around him, he had to grit his teeth to keep it together.

She freed him from his jeans, ran her hand from the base to the tip and he could feel tiny fireworks explode under his skin. _Not yet! Not yet!_

He wanted to come inside her, he needed to come inside her. He just needed to find a—

"Fuck!" he snarled as he remembered. He'd thrown away the condom he'd carried around in his wallet months ago. And he didn't keep any spare in his apartment. He hadn't needed them.

Until now.

If he would've been one of those preppers, not that he believed in the end of the world or anything, he'd probably have a box stashed somewhere. No luck, though. Shit.

"Shit."

"What is it?" she asked, still stroking him, and he wanted to weep at the injustice.

"No condoms."

She smiled slyly. "Backpack."

He glanced down at the backpack at his feet. Looked back at her, arched an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "I believe in being prepared."

"Oh, I love you." He kissed her. Quick and hard. "Hold on." He bent his knees, picked her backpack, straightened, and, one hand firmly on her ass, carried her into his bedroom.


	11. Chapter 10

She was struggling to keep her eyes open, struggling not to give into the urge of closing them and simply _feel_. But she was held captive by his intense gaze, watching him watch her as he slowly thrust and retreated, thrust and retreated, her golden chain with the Star of David hanging around his neck, the pendant brushing her chest with each movement.

He'd pulled on the breaks when he'd deposited her on his bed. Before, upright by his door, he'd appeared as frenzied as she'd been, then, in the bedroom, as he'd looked down at her as she'd sprawled on his bed, he'd started going unbearably slow. He'd peeled her pants and underwear oh-so slowly off her, flipped her onto her stomach, and started the torturously slow and lazy kissing spree from her neck, down her back, across her buttocks, down her legs. She'd been a puddle of nerve-endings by the time he'd finally flipped her onto her back.

And started with the slow, lazy, open-mouthed kisses from her toes up. Of course, he'd had to stop at the juncture of her thighs, bringing her to a long, shattering, screaming orgasm, before resuming his slow path up her stomach, over her breasts, and neck, finally ending at her mouth.

And he had accomplished all that without taking off his clothes. The friction of his T-shirt and jeans against her sensitized skin had been almost unbearable, making her hiss at the pleasure-pain of it. She'd been almost unable to function and his long, drugging kisses as he'd taken her mouth, had literally finished her off.

Unable to move, she had watched him as he stood and pulled off his shirt, slowly revealing his abdomen and chest. Tears had burned at the back of her eyes as she'd spotted her necklace resting between his pecs.

Tears had quickly been forgotten as her gaze had turned hungry. He wasn't ripped as those men on book covers she sometimes salivated over—she was human, after all—but she didn't want ripped. She wasn't a gym-produced muscles kind of girl. She liked her men 'natural' and Tony was right up her alley. Lean, leaner than she remembered, with just enough muscle delineation in his arms, shoulder, and chest. He looked good, delectable. She'd licked her lips at the sight of his abs. That was definitely a new development.

"Like what you see?" he'd asked huskily, but she'd been unable to form words. Nothing had stopped her from nodding, though.

He'd been working out. And it had been worth it. She'd licked her lips again. Lips that had gone dry the moment he'd dropped his jeans. Oh. My. God.

He'd noticed and shot her a grin that had been somewhere between naughty and sheepish. "It's been a long time," he'd said. "It might take a while to get rid of the itch." The grin had turned full-naughty. "It's good we have the entire weekend to work on it."

Then he'd torn open the foil packet he'd fished out of the box—good thinking on her part for the 'family-sized' supply—, covered himself, and crawled over her, bracing himself above her on his forearms as he'd simultaneously took her mouth and slid inside her.

She'd though she was incapable of movement, but as she'd felt that first thrust, deep and sure, she'd tangled her legs with his, lifted her arms to his shoulders, arched her back, and hung on for dear life as another orgasm roared through her.

Now, God only knew how much later, she lay under him, gazing into his slightly glazed-over eyes, silently urging him on, silently begging him to finish, to bring them both to that peek they've been aiming for since that kiss at his door.

Their hands were clasped beside her head, fingers intertwined, and she could've easily gotten free, reversed their positions so she'd be on top. But she didn't want to, she didn't care where she was, under him, above him, sideways or whatever, as long as he was touching her like this, thrusting fast and deep, the quickening pace telling her he was close to his own climax.

"Come on, baby," he whispered. "One last time."

She didn't know if she could even come one more time. She was exhausted. Pleasantly exhausted and she just wanted to snuggle close to him, burrow her face against his throat, and let him hold her for the rest of his life. But he wouldn't be deterred. He angled his hips just so, and she couldn't help but close her eyes and let the orgasm wash over her, through her, over them both.

She moaned, her throat dry and slightly achy, and he thrust deep inside her once more. He collapsed on top of her with a triumphant groan, his body trembling, and, gathering the last ounces of her strength, she slid her arms around his neck and tunneled her fingers into his hair.

.

.

She was drowsing, floating blissfully sated between consciousness and oblivion, when he groaned again. Feeling him trying to lift himself up, her eyes snapped open, and she quickly tightened her arms around him.

"No," she mumbled. He wasn't too heavy, he was just the right amount of heavy. And she loved having him on top of her, pressing her into the mattress.

"Be right back," he murmured close to her ear, and bit gently down on her earlobe.

She let him go, albeit reluctantly, and watched him saunter into the bathroom, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. She heard water running and she closed her eyes on a sigh. What a night this has been.

She heard move back to the bed, but didn't open her eyes. She squeaked softly, when he lifted her arms around his neck and tucked one arm under her knees.

"Shhh," he soothed. "I'm just tucking you in."

One-armed he pulled the covers back, laid her down, and slid into bed beside her, chest to chest, pulling the sheet up, around their waists, tucking her next to him.

He laughed softly. "I must have really tired you down, Z."

Eyes still closed, she frowned up at him, drawing circles on his back with her fingertips.

"I lifted you up and all I got was a squeak instead of a right hook."

Her fingers stilled. He had a point. She was limp and drowsy, and she suspected that even if an army of trained assassins attacked them, she wouldn't be able to muster the will to move.

"Hey, I'll protect you," he promised as if reading her mind. He was probably the only one who could.

She resumed her stroking and he sighed contentedly. She rubbed her nose on his chest, finding her necklace.

"You probably want this back."

"I gave it to you."

"I put it on the day we got the news."

She finally opened her eyes, but barely heard his quick apology for bringing up that particular subject. Her eyes were fastened on his bedside table. On the framed photo on his bedside table. It was the picture he'd taken on their op in Paris.

"It was the first thing I saw in the morning and the last I saw before falling asleep," he said softly.

Before she started crying again—she's never cried this much in her life—she slid higher in the bed, until they were nose to nose, brushed her fingertips down his cheek. And kissed him.

He pulled her closer, groaned, and she slipped her tongue past his lips, reveling in his taste, their breaths mingling. There wasn't any of the previous urgency in that kiss. It was slow, luxuriantly tender. A loving kiss.

He tightened his arms around her and she sighed as she felt his erection against her stomach.

"That is definitely not my knee," he joked.

"Mmmm, I can tell," she murmured against his lips, flicked her tongue out for a tiny taste.

"Come here," he growled and turned onto his back to bring her on top of him.

He's obviously forgotten the actual size of his bed or he's simply miscalculated, because they ended up on the floor in a tangle of bedding and pillows.

"Ow." Tony rubbed the back of his head and she chuckled. "I need a bigger bed."

She giggled. She actually giggled. If this wasn't a night full of surprises.

"You're laughing, huh?" he growled menacingly. "Let's see who'll have the last laugh, sweet-cheeks."

He danced his fingers firmly down her sides and the bedroom was suddenly filled with squeals, laughter, and mock-threats of bodily harm.


	12. Epilogue

It was the sun streaming into the room that woke her. She smiled softly, listening to Tony's soft snores and gently extricated herself from his arms. She slowly stood from their rather comfortable nest on the floor, tugged on his discarded T-shirt, and padded out of the bedroom.

Intent on making a semblance of breakfast, she moved toward the kitchen, but stopped at the sight of the shelves containing his DVDs. There were five books stacked on the bottom shelf and she grinned. Tony DiNozzo actually owned a book. Well, five of them.

Curious, she read the titles on the spines and her heart fluttered in her chest. It was Karen Marie Moning's _Fever_ series. She remembered telling him about it one time, but she couldn't believe he listened. She couldn't believe he actually read them. Judging from the cracks on the spines he's read them several times.

"You certainly are full of surprises, Tony," she whispered and pulled the last book, the thickest, off the shelf. She opened it on the page he had bookmarked with a folded paper, but it was the writing on the bookmark that caught her attention.

She unfolded the paper and a lump lodged in her throat as she read the top inscription. _I will_

Five lines were crossed out.

_I will give her space  
__I will give her time  
__I will be patient  
__I will tell her how I feel  
__I will get her back_

Tears were running down her cheeks as she read the two lines added at the bottom.

_I will never forget you  
__I will love you forever_

"Ziva!"

She pivoted, her blood chilling at the panicked tone in his voice.

"Ziva!"

Tony stumbled from his bedroom, his chest heaving, his gaze locked to her. He reached her in three strides, pulled her into his arms, and burrowed his face into her neck.

"You're here," he breathed. "You're here. God, I thought it was all a dream."

She circled him with her arms, kissed his temple. "No dream."

He lifted his head, cupped her cheeks. "I just lost 10 years of my life." And then he kissed her. A devouring, urgent, utterly devastating kiss that had her moaning in two seconds, one leg curled around his upper thigh.

He abruptly ended the kiss, and leaned his forehead against hers. "I love you."

"I know. I love you, too."

"I know. And I see you found my 'will'."

"Yes."

He grinned. "We'll make one together. You game."

She just nodded, her body still humming from the kiss.

"We can make one now."

She just wanted him to carry her back to bed.

He kissed the tip of her nose and pulled her toward the kitchen. "We will have breakfast, because we need fuel." He sat her on a stool. "We will go out and get a bigger bed, because I'm not spending another night on the floor." He grabbed a pan. "We will also buy extra condoms just in case." He cracked some eggs, seasoned them, and whisked. "We will come back here and spend the rest of the weekend making love." He winked.

She chuckled. "That's our will?"

"A temporary one. We can make a lengthier later."

"Later?"

He flipped the omelet. "Yeah. I figure it'll take a while, though." A long, searching look. "How does the rest of your life sound?"

She smiled through her tears. "Just perfect."

And as they dug into their breakfast she couldn't help but send a silent prayer of thanks. She was finally home.

**THE END**

* * *

_Author's note: Well, this is it. I know the epilogue sucks, but I've never been able to write decent endings to my stories. It also has much to do with the fact I'm already plotting my next story, so this one will have to do._

_Thanks to everyone who read this and/or commented. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it._

_Until next time._


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